


The Grimoire of Concupiscence

by moodymarshmallow



Series: The Elf and the Apostate [6]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Anal Sex, Introspection, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-11
Updated: 2012-06-11
Packaged: 2017-11-07 12:30:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/431219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodymarshmallow/pseuds/moodymarshmallow





	The Grimoire of Concupiscence

One by one, Anders’ effects began finding their way into Theron’s quarters. At first it was just clothes, previously empty drawers filling with woolen socks, spare robes, and smalls. By the time he noticed a scarf hanging out of a half-open drawer, the wardrobe was full. A week later, a once barren shelf was jammed with bundles of elfroot, a mortar and pestle, and multiple rows of finished potions and poultices. When he found the hairbrush, a razor and bottle of scent near the pitcher and basin, Theron realized that Anders wasn’t just storing some things in a safe place—he was surreptitiously moving in.

 

Theron didn’t mind. It wasn’t as though he spent a lot of time in that room anyway; he still preferred relaxing on the roof when there was enough downtime to do so. He slept up there half the time anyway, so when a makeshift bed for Ser Pounce-a-Lot found its way into his room, he didn’t give it a second thought. In fact, the Warden-Commander’s quarters were getting rather charmingly cluttered, and it amused him that Anders was managing to move all of these things in when Theron wasn’t around. Every time he opened the door he took a cursory glance around to see what was new, finding thin leather cords near the hairbrush on the basin, parchment, quills and ink on the desk, and a stack of thick, large books at the end of the bed.   
  
So they were living together.  
  
Out of curiosity, Theron went downstairs to the room that had been assigned to Anders and was unsurprised to find it nearly bare. Alone on a bookcase was a large, leather-bound book, fine tooling proclaiming the title as  _The Grimoire of Concupiscence_. It was bigger than most of the books that had appeared in the Commander’s quarters, but otherwise, Theron couldn’t figure out why this one alone had been left behind.

He took it upstairs, thinking he’d give Anders a little surprise of his own when he went into his quarters to pick it up. Before heading upstairs, he detoured to grab a small, stubby bottle of blackberry wine from the cellar, uncorking before ascending the stairs.   
  
Pounce was lying in the middle of the bed when he returned to his room, and he shooed him with a wave of his hand. The tabby opened one eye, yawned, then slogged up to the pillows with that annoyed, put-upon stare that he often regarded Theron with. He settled there, curling up in a ball with his back to Theron, ignoring him. Setting the bottle and book on the nightstand, he started to fiddle with the buckles on his armor. Once loosened, he hung it on the armor stand and began sifting through the now full, unorganized drawers to find the shirt he preferred to sleep in. He found it buried under a pile of woolen socks, green elfroot staining the cuffs. It was too big for him; he liked that.

Dressed down and comfortable, he climbed into bed and folded his legs underneath him. Despite his pointed disinterest, Pounce purred softly as Theron shifted towards him, picking up bottle and book. He put the former to his lips, downing a swallow of the syrupy blackberry spirits, more port than wine, really. Balancing the book on his knees, Theron opened it, paging absently through a chapter on salves and balms, then skipping entirely one titled “Rising to the Occasion.” The wine was deceptively strong; by the time the little bottle was half-empty Theron had to set it to the side lest he spill on the book in his lightheaded sloppiness.   
  
It was when he found the chapter with the detailed, perhaps embellished, drawings of couples in various states of intimate congress that Theron realized what he was reading. Having not spent much of his youth with his nose in a book, his written vocabulary was fairly poor. He hadn’t noticed the more obvious signs as he had passed over words he was unfamiliar with. But he understood now, and felt fabulously foolish as he tilted the book to one side to try and discern which side of the copulating couple on the pages was up.   
  
The second realization hit him a bit later, as he paged further in, coming up on a few drawings of couples of the same sex. If this was  _Anders’_ book, he probably knew, or was at least interested in using some of these techniques. The tips of his ears felt hot. He twitched them, annoyed by what he knew was a creeping blush. He closed the book and shoved it to the end of the bed, falling back on the pillows, only narrowly avoiding Pounce’s swishing tail. He was warm from the wine, and he closed his eyes, resting an arm over them, trying not to think too deeply on the notion of being in some of those positions with Anders.

Not that he was put off by some of the ideas. There had been a picture of a man holding a woman against a wall, lovingly crafted expressions of lust on their faces, her legs tight around his waist, that appealed to him greatly when he imagined himself in her place. He did just that, for a moment, mentally putting himself against that wall, legs around Anders waist, a similar look of satisfaction on his face.   
  
But the whole…mess…with Anders was still awkward in so many ways. It was love, without question, and he was frighteningly attracted to him, yet…  
  
With the heat from the wine getting to him, he got up and padded to the nearest window, opening it to let the crisp night air into the room. It smelled like rain on the horizon, and Theron could hear the soft murmur of thunder in the distance. The storm was coming their way. He huffed in frustration, as that meant he was going to have to sleep inside. There were no sheltered areas on the roof that he could stretch out on a bedroll, and besides, Anders preferred the bed.   
  
The candle on the nightstand sputtered out, leaving ash and weak smoke in its wake. Theron rummaged through a cupboard, looking for the oil hurricane lamps, finding it necessary to move more of Anders’ belongings to get to them. He lit one, then the other, watching shadows dance merrily across the walls as he set one on the nightstand, the other on the desk. It left the room in a strange place, stuck between the warm light of the lamps and the cool promise of rain seeping in from outside. Theron rather liked it.

He picked up the book again when he returned to the bed. As he leaned on the pillows, minding Pounce, he sat with his knees bent, resting the book on them and paging through slowly. Aware now of what he was looking at, he gave the first two chapters a closer look. The salves and balms, as he had guessed, were all of a fairly intimate nature, their names including words like  _warming, cooling_ _,_ and  _slippery_ _._  The chapter he had skipped seemed to be about different poultices and potions to excite arousal, and he had somehow missed four pages with detailed diagrams of how to enchant rope to tie itself.

Paging slowly, he glanced at the dark sky through the window. It was getting late, and it was odd that Anders was not back yet. But he could have been doing any number of things; drinking with Oghren, playing cards with Sigrun, or finding some new, creative way to annoy Nathaniel. Either way, he wasn’t on some schedule.   
  
Theron turned his attention back to the book, finding the illustration that he was looking for. He ran his fingertips across it, very gently, tracing the lines of the woman’s body, her arms around her lover’s neck, her back arched, her neck long and lovely, bared to her lover’s mouth. Pushing his thumb over the face of the man holding her, he closed his eyes and put Anders there instead, feeling the truth of the heat pooling in at the base of his spine.   
  
By the Creators, he wanted that.   
  
He grabbed the bottle on the nightstand and shoved it to his mouth, gulping, letting it burn on the way down, licking the rim, and licking his lips when he put it back. His mouth was sweet and full of the bitter bite, lips tingling slightly. He lifted his hand to his face, breathing deeply as he pressed his thumb to his lower lip.   
  
He turned the page. Two woman, this time, curled together with smiles on their faces. The next page had a lurid illustration of two women and one man, and Theron was beginning to wonder if this portion of the book was magical or just the result of a bored, aroused illustrator. Shifting the book a bit, as it was now digging into a sensitive part of his anatomy, he paged slowly, scanning slowly over the detailed ink drawings.   
  
This time he stopped on a picture of a man, a mage, obviously, drawn to make it look as if there was light emitting from the hand he had pressed against his lover’s breast. Theron cocked his head, then tilted the book slightly, squinting at the small, scrolling letters.

 _“It’s important to use a delicate touch,”_  it said.  _“The desired effect is a light, pleasant tingling, too much ____________ can cause injury.”_  Theron squinted harder at the word he didn’t recognize before giving up and moving back to the page he liked.

Anders was strong enough to hold him up like that, even if he was a mage. He outweighed him, and ideally he’d be braced against a wall of some sort. He knew his own arms had more than enough strength and stamina to hold up the majority of his weight if necessary. Theron studied the picture for a moment more, before putting the book to the side and resting an arm over his eyes.   
  
What was the problem, anyway? That little pinch of doubt when it came to Anders? His heritage—sure, but he felt less like a Dalish now than he ever had. It wasn’t as though he would ever have a place again with his clan, even if the darkspawn were all vanquished and Ferelden was safe for the rest of his life. He was changed—irrevocably so.   
  
Maybe that was it—the idea that Anders had fallen for  _this_  iteration of Theron, the one whose boots still felt a little funny, as though they were meant for someone else. Maybe it was less of a matter of learning to love Anders properly, and more one of learning to accept who he was now.

That was a freeing thought, and he rolled it around in his head as he let himself daydream, wondering which wall, what time of day, and what would spark the desire to lead Anders to scoop him up and press him, rough and desperate, against something to pin him there. He was always so gentle with him—he didn’t have to be.   
  
Theron spread himself out, stretching his legs instead of sitting with them bent at the knee. He was painfully hard, and that position had done nothing good for that. On the edges of his perception, the minor areas not wrapped up in the heat in his groin and the throbbing of his pulse, he could smell the storm closing in, feel the cool air on his bare legs, and hear footsteps far down the hallway. Keeping his eyes covered, he slid a hand down his chest, shifting his hips, opening his thighs a bit, until he realized that the footsteps were louder now. He tugged his shirt over his smalls, modest even in his own room.   
  
As the doorknob turned, he sat up, propping himself on the pillows. Pounce opened one eye, yawned, and rolled up against him before settling back to sleep. Anders was flushed from ale as he came in, glancing at the hurricane lamp on the desk before meeting Theron’s gaze, the smile on his face warmer than the blush on Theron’s ears.

“Commander,” Anders said with a silly grin, nodding deferentially as he closed the door behind him. He fiddled with the clasp at his throat, unhooking it and sliding off his feathered pauldrons. Setting them jauntily on top of Theron’s armor, he crossed to the bed, smiling when Theron beckoned him. “Were you waiting up for me?”   
  
“Oh, just come here.” Theron pressed parted lips to Anders’, contented and needy when Anders’ tongue filled his mouth, hot, slick, and tasting of bitter ale. Anders climbed over him, pinning him to the pillows, ever eager for the affection.   
  
Theron pulled the tie from Anders’ hair, setting it aside, combing down his bangs, smiling up at the image of him above him, wild blond and amber when he pulled out of their kiss and licked his lips. “You like my hair, don’t you?” He was fond and sweet, his touch immediately gravitating to areas Theron liked.   
  
“I love your hair.”   
  
“Mmm, say that bit again, just the first part.” Anders dipped his head under Theron’s chin, licking his adam’s apple, stroking his throat with a gentle hand.

_“Ma’arlath.”_

“Eventually I’m going to know what you’re saying, and you won’t be able to hide it anymore.” Anders sounded a touch dejected as he rose from Theron’s neck, clumsily dropping the entirety of his weight onto him when Theron grabbed his head and pulled his ear to his lips.   
  
“I hide nothing from you,” Theron said, his voice so much below a whisper that Anders had to strain to hear it, even though he spoke directly into his ear. “I am bad with words. I have told you this. There are some things that feel more true and comfortable in Elvish, and telling you that I love you is one of them. That is  _ma’arlath_. Never forget that. Never doubt that.” As ever, there were some things he could only say when sloppy drunk, and he was thankful for the flush from the wine, although he knew he was all the redder still from his words.

Anders just held him, letting his head rest against Theron’s. “You can’t even imagine how long—” He stopped when he shifted, his hand knocking into the thick book. “Hey!” Anders at up, suddenly distracted. “I’ve been looking all over for this!” He then turned to Theron, regarding his red ears with a grin. “You were reading it, weren’t you?” Anders sat back on his heels, opening the book and flipping a few pages. “Anything stand out to you?”   
  
Theron shuffled back against the headboard, sitting up as Anders set the book between them. He tentatively found the page that appealed to him, pointing one finger to the illustration and pushing the tome towards Anders. The mage looked at it curiously, reading the small instructions, mostly spells and tips for accommodating the weight of a partner while standing. It was one of the least exotic pages of the book; there was no electricity, no parlour tricks, just two people enjoying one another.   
  
“Do you want me like that?” Anders asked, running his fingers down the same lines that Theron had earlier, thinking different things, imagining Theron’s thighs in his hands as he held him up, thinking that the archer was easily light enough for him to do so. He snapped the book closed and shoved it to the side. Theron nodded slightly, and Anders kissed him again, tender and anxious. “Inside of you?” He nodded again, and there was a flurry of limbs and rustling fabric as Anders struggled out of his robes. “Now?” He asked, low and eager, helping Theron off with his shirt when he nodded once more.   
  
It was raining now, the chill air barely registering on Theron’s heated skin, as it was humming from the attention of lips and tongue and fingers while Anders moved much, much too slowly across his body. He kept coming up for air, kissing Theron lightly, the light from the flickering hurricane lamps carving him into shapes of gold and shadow, beautiful, with soft lines and brilliant highlights. He was reluctant when he was urged onto his stomach, resting his sweaty head against the cool pillow as he lifted his lower body up on his knees, shivering at Anders’ hands on his thighs.

“Have you done this before?” Anders’ voice was muffled by a loud crack of thunder that sent Pounce, who had vacated the bed in favor for the empty desk chair, flying into the closet to hide. He waited for a response, stroking Theron’s back until he got it. His fingers were slick and hot and Theron relaxed against the sensation, closing his eyes and breathing steadily as he pushed the first one inside. “Let me know if it’s too much…”   
  
It was too much; too much affection and sensation, and all of it after such a long spell without feeling as though he would never want it again. All in the middle of his new roles; hero and commander, warden and leader, none of which he wanted. All too much.   
  
Anders though, was just enough. He coaxed the mage to two fingers, then three, burying his face to stifle himself when he found that perfect spot, whispering curses and endearments in Elvish when the mage realized what he’d done and did it again. “I want to be on my back,” Theron said, finally, when he was more than ready, feeling somewhat poorer for the loss of fullness when Anders withdrew so he could flip over. But the gain of Anders’ flushed, smiling face was more than enough to make up for it.   
  
The storm was right above them now, thunder shaking the walls, lightning throwing white highlights around the room, giving things hard edges, making Theron’s blown pupils contract and giving Anders’ loose, damp hair a gorgeous, ethereal cast.

Inches were like hours. Anders was too careful, commenting, somewhat nervously, on how slim Theron’s hips were and repeating, several times over, that he didn’t want to hurt him. Theron had to urge him, to hook his feet behind his ass and pull him in until he was buried deep, leaving Theron aching and full and in that sublime miracle space where he couldn’t think even if he wanted to.   
  
He mouthed sweetness against Anders’ lips as he began to move inside of him, his breath hitching and shuddering as the friction made him incoherent. He spoke to Anders in halting Elvish, correcting himself when he could remember to. He told him it was perfect, that he was wonderful, that he was doing everything right, that he loved it, that he loved him. He had to give up on sentiment when Anders wrapped his long fingers around his cock, stroking in slow rhythm to match his thrusts. So he held him, clutching with arms and legs, groaning and gasping, his back arching when he came, Anders disappearing from his vision as his eyes rolled back.   
  
Anders slowed, pet his hair, and kissed his cheek as Theron rode it out, silently listening to him mumble in Elvish. It was such a reversal of roles; Anders speechless while Theron couldn’t stop. Once he came to his senses, Theron buried his fingers in Anders’ hair and kissed him, tightening the grip he had with his legs, feeling stubble-burn on his cheeks and lips from sloppy, imprecise kisses. When Anders movements became erratic, he tugged him close, holding tight to him as he cried out, hips bucking, spilling himself into Theron before collapsing onto him, gasping for air.

Calm came over the world outside of the Keep as the storm traveled north to terrorize Amaranthine. With the winds and thunderclouds gone, there was no more than a light, fresh rain tapping quietly on the stonework. The lamp on the nightstand had run out of oil and the one on the desk was sputtering. Theron and Anders had settled, torn off the top sheet and cleaned up before falling back into bed, glowing and full of the taste of one another.   
  
They were curled around one another with Theron’s back nestled flush against Anders’ chest, the mage’s face buried in his hair, sleepily stroking Theron’s arm as they slipped towards exhaustion together.   
  
“Teach me to say it properly,” Anders said, half asleep, murmuring thickly.

 _“Ma’arlath.”_  
  
“I always thought I was waiting for someone to say  _I love you_.” Anders squeezed Theron slightly. “Somehow, this just sounds better.”


End file.
